The Same Water by Slo_6 True Story Contest contest entry |
I learned to swim that summer. That’s the best milestone I can remember to estimate my age, so it was probably the summer before or possibly right after kindergarten. I can only guess that my mother had some friends who convinced her that a swim club membership was a good idea. She had friends there. I didn’t know anyone. Still, summer at a swimming pool wasn’t so bad. The club had an arcade, just a dark, dank room with a few pinball machines and exactly one cabinet video game. I think the game may have been either “Sea Wolf” or “Gunfight,” but I can’t quite remember. Regardless, my being able to play this space age technological marvel was a thrill. Plus, I learned to swim that summer. That’s a pretty important life skill. My most profound memory, though, was of a boy I saw only one day that summer. By his size, he was clearly older than me, closer to my brother’s age, maybe twelve or thirteen. It’s not that I don’t remember who was with him that day, I don’t believe I ever even noticed. I could only focus on him, not the people around him. He was different. I could see it in his actions, in his expressions, in his features, in his face. He was different than me and different from any boy I had ever been around before that day. Back in the 70s, the word “retarded” was used often and freely in several different ways. It was an adjective for something stupid. It was an insult for someone being stupid. It was a punchline for bad jokes. And it was used to describe people like this boy. That always seemed wrong to me, that we could use the word in that last way with absolutely no objection to using it in the other ways. Of course, I was too young to speak out on it. Even if I had the initiative, I wasn’t mature enough, wise enough, or smart enough to articulate the sentiment. So, I knew what made him look different, but I had never actually been near anyone like this. My experience was limited to television, pictures in the newspaper, insults, and bad jokes. Despite my more compassionate feelings on the use of the word, now that I was this close, my reaction was fear and discomfort. I didn’t know how a person came to be this way. I didn’t like the way he looked. I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t stop myself from stealing glances. He seemed to be enjoying the pool and having a better day than me. A smile is a smile on any face. As for me, I stayed by my chair. I was worried about being in the water with him, worried about the same water touching him and touching me. Was water conductive? Could I catch it? What if he swam near me, flailing his arms wildly? My mother was smart enough to see what was happening, but like me, she probably wasn’t sure what to do about it. She told me he was a boy like any other boy, even if he looked a little different. There was nothing about him that should scare me. She said all the right things, and I expect she hoped I would eventually get past my fear and go about my business like normal. I didn’t. I never got in the pool that day. The easiest thing to do was avoid the situation. I told myself that I wasn’t teasing him or making fun of him to other children, so I wasn’t doing anything bad. The easiest thing, however, didn’t necessarily feel like the right thing. It felt like I did something wrong, but I wasn’t mature enough, wise enough, or smart enough to articulate what was wrong, even to myself. I am the father of two children, so imagining what it would be like if all the other kids chose to leave the pool just because my children were in the water is a troubling thought. No child or parent should ever have to feel that way. So, there is that, but there is certainly more. The mistake I made that day was that I had resigned myself to believe that this boy’s day at the pool, his presence, was incompatible with mine. I don’t know how long it took to grow out of those feelings, but I don’t have another memory like this one. Maybe I got over it after that one bad day at the pool. Maybe, in some ways, I’m still working on it. I still feel discomfort around some people. It might be the way they talk, and I might choose to exit a conversation early. It might be their personality, and I might decide against getting friendly with them. It might be the way they act, and I might choose to keep my guard up around them. It might even be the way they look. We feel the way we feel for many reasons, some that can’t be explained. We don’t always get to choose how we feel. That day at the pool, my instincts told me to stay away from that boy. Of course, now that seems foolish, but I’m not ready to completely toss aside my instincts. I’ve been in enough bad situations to know that instincts serve a purpose. Instincts, however, do not grant me exemption from my responsibilities towards a decent society. That boy at the pool didn’t want anything from me. He just wanted to use the same pool as everyone else. Instead, I chose that I couldn’t be in the same water. Instead of each of us just having a great day, I created an unnecessary division. I don’t believe any of the other children noticed or cared. He seemed to have a good time. Still, I know that my silent refusal had a consequence. I denied him the opportunity to use the same pool as everyone else because I was a part of everyone else.
It’s amazing how little I remember from that pool club: the arcade, learning to swim, and someone different from me. I can’t fix my shortcomings that day, so I owe it to that boy to remember the lesson. I’m free to live my life how I choose, but people minding their own business are not responsible for the choices I make. No one should feel that my participation is conditional on their absence. No one should feel that anyone just living their life hinders someone else from living theirs.
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